Brandewyne, Rebecca (45 page)

Through
all this, Wulfgar behaved so strangely that people began to speak of him as
mad; and in battle, he fought so wildly
and savagely that it seemed he had found
the Berserks' Way— or else that he hoped to be slain. Even Ivar, in those days,
kept out of Wulfgar's path, haunted more deeply than he cared to admit by
Wulfgar's soulless eyes; for Ivar felt somehow as though he looked into a
polished-bronze mirror and saw his own reflection in that blind and empty gaze.
In the evenings, in the abandoned great halls of dead kings and earls, Halfdan
sat and contemplated the two men silently, looking thoughtful and troubled.
Yelkei, too, watched and waited and, for the first time that any of them could
ever remember, held her tongue.

But
then, one night, there came to Ivar's fire a bard, Owain by name, with a tame
ferret wrapped around his arm and a wild Celtic harp slung over his shoulder.
He was not a
skáld
of
the Northland, but still, none offered him insult or injury; for a bard was a
caste unto himself, respected by all, welcome anywhere to sing for his supper,
and might as easily be found in some peasant's cottage as in the great hall of
a king. After he had hungrily consumed his bowl of thick, savory mutton stew, a
hunk of hard bread spread with honey and butter, and a cup of mead, Owain
slipped from its soft leather drawstring case his harp, made of ash and
beautifully
carved. He tuned the strings, then plucked a few scattered notes and chords
before beginning to play a soft ballad; and despite himself, as Wulfgar heard
the foreign but achingly familiar words Rhowenna had used to sing, something
sparked deep inside him and started to burn like a rare candle in the wind.
After a moment, he somehow could not refrain from drawing near to the fire and
the harper, Yelkei like a shadow at his side.

The
ferret sat upon Owain's shoulder, its tiny eyes gleaming in the firelight, its
nose and whiskers twitching; and Wulfgar thought how Rhowenna would love it,
and there was a lump in his throat at the thought. The bard played for a very
long time; for save in his own land of Walas, he had seldom, to his surprise,
had a more appreciative audience than the
Víkingrs,
whose warrior souls
stirred to music and poetry and art, knowing death so intimately and so being
the more strongly drawn to all that enriched life. Then, at last, laying aside
his harp, Owain took notice of Wulfgar's interest in the ferret. With a treat
he took from his pocket, the harper tempted the small creature down his arm and
then into Wulfgar's hands, saying:

"Her
name is Cariad. 'Tis a word that in the language of Walas means—"

"Elsket...
beloved."
His head bowed, Wulfgar gently stroked the beast's soft fur, pretending to
concentrate on the ferret, so the bard could not see his face.

"Aye."
Owain nodded. Then he laid his hand on Wulfgar's shoulder and drew near to say,
very low, so no one should overhear, "She is alive, your beloved, Wulfgar
Bloodaxe. She bade me tell you so and that you have a fine son— Please, my
lord, if you must break my wrist, have mercy, and choose not the hand that
plucks my harp—"

"Lying
bastard! How much did Ivar pay you?"

"Nothing,
nothing. I do speak the truth, I swear it! Ask the yellow woman!"

Wulfgar
inhaled sharply at that, turning to stare hard at Yelkei, his eyes leaping of a
sudden with hope and a wild blue fire that was like the eerie blue spheres of
light born of a highly charged storm.

"Yelkei...
?" His voice was low and pleading.

"
'Tis true, Wulfgar," she confessed, half fearful and ashamed that she had
kept this knowledge from him, although she had thought it in his best interests
to do so. "I did not tell you before, because your lady wife said that if
she survived, she would send Owain the Bard to me— for she would trust
no other
messenger or her words to a letter that might fall into Ivar's hands— and that
if Owain the Bard did not come, there was no need for you ever to know what she
did for love of you and your child—"

"What
did she do? I don't understand. How can she be alive? Yelkei, I held her
lifeless body in my arms, and kissed her breathless mouth—"

"Nay,
'twas but the deep, dark sleep from which one sometimes does not awaken. Your
lady wife drank a potion I mixed, Wulfgar, so that abysmal slumber would come
upon her. Far to the east beyond the Eastlands, there are tribes even older
than my own, who know the secrets of such things, and one of their ilk did
teach me, many years ago. But 'tis dangerous. Too much of this, too little of
that, and one slips across the gloaming into Asgard, or Hel. So, 'twas best we
did not tell you before now; for had you known, had you not believed your lady
wife truly dead, Ivar might have guessed at our trickery— But now, Owain the
Bard is here, and all is well— although he has been a long time coming...."

"The
time of your lady wife was long and difficult, my lord," the harper
explained, as, taking up a soft hide cloth, he began to polish his harp. "
'Twas not an easy birth. Then,
afterward, the childbed fever set in, and we feared
to lose her still. So I saw no point in telling you she lived, when it seemed
she might yet die, grieving you all over again. Since her recovery, I have
spent many weeks trying to find you, my lord. As well you know, all of Britain
is in a state of war and upheaval, and when King Ivar travels, he moves hard
and swift, so his enemies have little warning of his approach."

"There
is still more, Wulfgar," Yelkei said, "for men do fear to cross a
true spaewife, especially when she has paid them well for their silence; and so
I've messages of my own to impart. Flóki the Raven serves you still as your
second-in-command, and he has gathered the
thegns
who accompanied
you here to Britain but were scattered by Ivar's men when they seized your
Dragon Ship; and thanks to your famous prowess in battle, your own warriors
have been joined by many others eager to pledge oath to you. Together with
Flóki, they have reclaimed the
Siren's Song,
and he captains
her now in your stead. She lies just off the coast of East Anglia, awaiting
your return."

"I
can't believe it! 'Tis just too much to take in all at once! I am overwhelmed
with emotion—" Wulfgar broke off, trying to contain himself. Then, after a
long moment, he
continued. "Yelkei, you have been busy." His voice was wry with the
first hint of humor she had seen from him since he had held Rhowenna's still
and silent, drugged figure in his embrace, and Yelkei was immeasurably cheered.
But then his face turned dark with sorrow again, and he cried softly, "Ah,
gods! I should have been there for her, Yelkei! To think of Rhowenna giving
birth to our child, without me, frightened and alone—"

"Frightened?
Aye." Owain smiled kindly, clucking to the ferret in Wulfgar's hands and
giving the creature another treat. " 'Tis an awesome thing, the birth of a
babe. But never you fear, my lord. Your lady wife was not alone, although 'twas
you for whom she called out, and no other. She grieves that you have yet to see
your son."

"My
son..." Wulfgar's face was filled with wonder at the thought.

"A
fine, strong lad, like his father— so says your lady wife."

"And
does he have a name, this son of mine?" Wulfgar inquired.

"He
does, my lord. Your lady wife calls him Leik the Bold."

"Leik
the Bold. Rhowenna chose well."

"I
am beginning to think so, my lord," the harper remarked enigmatically,
folding away the cloth with which he had polished
his harp and sliding the
instrument itself into its case. "Come, Cariad." He patted his
shoulder, and the beast leaped on it from Wulfgar's hands. "The hour grows
late, and there are songs to be sung on the morrow." Slinging his harp
over his shoulder, Owain stood. "My lord. Princess Yelkei. I will bid you
a good night."

"Good
night, Owain the Bard, and thank you, for everything," Wulfgar answered.
Then he turned to Yelkei, saying, "You made plans with Rhowenna. Now, 'tis
long past time that you made plans with me, as well. The horses Ivar has
confiscated are valuable and, so, closely guarded; 'twould be hard to steal
even one, much less two. So, we will do better with a small sailing boat to
make good our escape to the
Siren's Song,
I am thinking—"

"East
Anglia has its fair share of traders and fisher folk, and Thetford is no
exception. There are rowboats and small sailing boats beached upon the banks of
the little river from Thetford that leads to the Great Ouse and thence to the
Wash and the North Sea. The theft of one vessel will surely not be noticed;
many have been abandoned by the villagers who fled at the approach of Ivar's
great army—"

"We'll
need provisions, too, for the journey
south, down the coast of East
Anglia—"

"Those,
I can get—"

"Then
we will steal away just before dawn—
 Yelkei, you should have told me
that Rhowenna was alive! I curse you that you did not!"

"You
will have cause to thank me for it in the end, I am thinking. Remember that to
you, my tongue has always spoken truly—
 and that there is purpose in all I
do. Before, you did not know what it was to lose what mattered most to you in
all the world. Now you do, and you will be the stronger for it, as the fire and
the folding of the metal strengthen a blade. Now, let us speak no more. Ivar is
watching us— Nay, do not glance in his direction! Ah, 'tis too late! Too late!
Now he knows! He knows that something has happened tonight to change you."

"Oh,
Yelkei, how? How can he possibly know?"

"The
light of your soul has come back into your eyes."

* * * * *

Before
the pale, cold light of day glowed at the edge of the horizon, Wulfgar and
Yelkei sneaked from the great hall of the abandoned manor Ivar had appropriated
for his own winter quarters. The mist that billowed in with the wind across the
sweeping land hung thick
and low in the hollows, and as he slipped through its veils in the darkness
lighted only by the silvery, ringed moon and dimming stars that still shone in
the sky, Wulfgar thought of Flóki out on the rough North Sea, blind in the
mist, and was glad the
Siren's Song
lay instead safe at anchor at the
mouth of the river Blackwater, off the southeastern shore of East Anglia. At
this hour, the night was as quiet as the grave, save for the distant, wild, and
forlorn cries of the wolves and birds, and just as eerie, giving Wulfgar and
Yelkei the feeling that they had stepped from the earth that was real into one
that was mystical and fey, a siren's place. Frost encrusted the ground,
crunching beneath Wulfgar's booted feet as he slowed his pace to accommodate
Yelkei, whose legs were not nearly so long as his and so who could not walk as
fast as he. Every now and then, he glanced back over his shoulder, for all the
good it did him. In the mist, he could not see if anyone was following them,
although he thought he would have heard the crunch of boots upon the rime, if
so. But perhaps he would not over the pounding of his heart, the harshness of
his breath, making white clouds in the wintry air. From behind him now,
Yelkei's own breath came in quick, hard little pants as she struggled to keep
up; and Wulfgar realized then that he was now running along the reed-grown
riverbank, through the mist, running like a lithe, mighty stag bounding and
leaping in flight, as though his very life depended on it, his long hair
streaming from his face in the wind. He knew he must stop and wait for Yelkei,
but he could not seem to halt, or even to slow down. Something wild and
primitive had seized hold of him, now possessed him, and he was both the hunter
and the hunted, running from the darkness that swallowed all in his wake, and
toward a distant, bright and shining light that was like the North Star,
guiding him home.

At
last, when he reached the place where the rowboats and sailing boats of the
Thetford villagers were beached upon the riverbank, Wulfgar did stop, his heart
racing, his lungs ready to burst from the chilly air he had drawn into them.
Exhilaration surged through him. His face was flushed; his eyes gleamed with an
excitement that was like that before a battle; and as he gazed toward the east
where, he knew, far away, lay the dark and boundless North Sea, it came to him
of a sudden, somehow, that his destiny awaited him there.

Gasping
for breath, Yelkei trudged up beside him, small and stooped beneath the
heaviness of the leather sackfuls of supplies she
carried slung over her
shoulders. So all-consuming had been the unknown, unbridled thing that had
gripped him that Wulfgar had not even felt the weight of his own burdens. But
Yelkei was not young, and now he felt shame that she had been forced to hurry
because of him. Still, she said naught, as though she understood the madness
that had come so unexpectedly upon him. Instead, dropping her bags to the
ground, she began to move among the rowboats and sailing boats that lay like
hulking beasts among the reeds that lined the riverbank.

"That
one," she said after a moment, choosing a sturdy sailing boat.